


The ultimate act of love

by hobgoblin123



Category: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1979130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobgoblin123/pseuds/hobgoblin123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep down in the Hunter's Keep, Damien has to make a choice...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The ultimate act of love

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.

Blinking open his eyes, Damien couldn't even see his hand in front of his face. For a moment, he felt completely disorientated, wondering in which dismal and potentially lethal place on Erna he had landed himself this time. And why the hell a sense of desperate urgency was reverberating through his body like a drum calling the Knights of the Flame to battle.

Working his Sight, he realized that he had to be in an underground chamber deep in the bowels of the earth. Volcanic stone as black as the heart of midnight glittered in the eerie light of the delicate but yet so powerful tendrils of dark fae which were concentrating around a huge numarble slab and the still figure laying atop it.

Gerald! A surge of intense relief flooded his mind like a tidal wave. It had been of vital importance to find the man he had gone to hell and back for. The Patriarch had told him so, had sent him to the Forbidden Forest in order to perform a very important task. So far, so good. But for the life of him, the warrior knight couldn't picture the exact nature of his holy mission. Hopefully, his superior had finally come to his senses and he was serving as an envoy, bearing an offer to join forces against the Iezu intent on enslaving mankind.

An utterly familiar weight rested in his calloused right palm, and looking down, Damien felt his blood run cold with dread. His fingers were closed around the hilt of his sword, the very same weapon which had been solemnly presented to him when he had become a member of the Order of the Golden Flame. At a moment's notice, it occurred to him for which deed he had been promised forgiveness for his sin of allying with a creature considered evil incarnate, defying the laws of his church in the process, and his knees very nearly buckled under the onslaught of a wave of despair no less black than the numarble providing the resting place for the Prince of Jahanna.

"You won't kill the Prophet of the Law," the Holy Father had said gravely. "He already died more than nine hundred years ago the day he slaughtered his family for his own gain. What we're dealing with now is a bloodthirsty monster, a _thing_   that wears his identity in order to do the bidding of his dark masters by tempting those weak in faith and corrupting everybody who's foolish enough to heed to its insinuations. Deny it all the way you want to, but deep down in your heart you know that I'm speaking nothing but the truth. Deliver us from this spawn of hell, and Gerald Tarrant's immortal soul might finally find the way back to God, blessing you for being its saviour. So pluck up courage and give him peace, Reverend Vryce. I verily believe that the Lord in His infinite wisdom has chosen you for this task.“

For a change, the rich baritone had been amazingly gentle instead of resonating with contempt or cold rage. And all the more seductive because of the fae finely spun around each and every syllable. Without a doubt, the man subconsciously used his powers to read his innermost thoughts and manipulate him for his own benefit. Dazedly, Damien wondered whether the head of the Church of Human Unification on the eastern continent would ever realize how much, in this respect, he resembled the very man whose death he had just commanded without batting an eyelash.

But be that as it may, back then in the Patriarch's audience chamber, Vryce had believed him, had believed him because he had _wanted_   to with all his heart. Having brought the Hunter to justice, he might very well finally find a measure of peace again himself. If he lived to see another day, that is. In either case, there would be no more sleepless nights laying in store for him, dreading just another nightmare which invariably confronted him with the mounds of writhing flesh he had been forced to wade through in Tarrant's private hell. Thousand upon thousands of slaughtered women calling out to him, cursing his name, begging him to end their torment... The warrior knight shuddered. This carnage had to end here. And if his superior wasn't completely mistaken, ransoming Gerald from his infernal existence wouldn't be a crime, but the ultimate act of love.

Registering his choice of words, Vryce very nearly burst out into a fit of hysterical laughter. As much as he wished otherwise, there was no denying that his feelings towards the adept had undergone a quite unsettling change over the last months. A priest pining for the fallen founder-father of his religion who had willingly bartered his humanity to the forces of the dark and had been committing the vilest atrocities without a shred of remorse for centuries - if this wasn't the most absurd staircase wit of history, he would eat his metaphorical hat for breakfast.

Developing a crush on Gerald Tarrant of all people should have never happened. But the very same applied to so many other events which had made his life a misery during their shared adventures: the demise of his comrades Senzei Reese and Hesseth, poor little Jenseny sacrificing herself for the common good, a desperate mother who had killed her four children in order to spare them the grisly fate waiting for them... the list went on and on. So much suffering, blood and death. No wonder that his hair had been greying rapidly since he had set eyes on the Hunter in that dae in Briand for the first time.

Pushing down his emotions with all his might and main, Damien stepped closer and gazed down on his natural enemy, his friend, the one and only being meaning more to him than his own life. As in the cellar of Karril's temple, the heavy, richly embroidered robe shrouding the lean frame only served to heighten the overall impression of delicate frailty. No muscle moved in the finely-chiselled face so untouched by the troubles of the mortal world, no breath stirred Tarrant's chest, and his complexion was utterly devoid of the rosy glow of life. With his hands gripping the hilt of the sheathed sword resting on his body, he resembled nothing so much as one of the ancient tomb effigies guarding the crumbling mortal remains of long gone kings and crusaders. Or a laid out corpse. Which, in a way, hit the nail on the head until the spell cast upon him by the sunlight was broken and he could resume his night-bound unlife.

Certainly, somewhere in the realms of the living, far from Jahanna, the birds were still singing, and decent folks were living their normal, sheltered lives. But here, in the below-ground vaults of the black replica of Merentha Castle, the terrors of eternal night were reigning supreme.

Sunset was approaching rapidly. Due to his link with the Lord of the Forest, Damien could feel the weakening of the rays of their central star in his bones. So very soon, the children of sunlight would retreat to their shelters, hiding their fragile bodies behind Warded doors and windows, while the nocturnal predators poured out of their lightless hiding spots and prowled around Erna in their insatiable hunger for human sustenance. It was high time to stand by his vow and rid the world of the Hunter's taint forever, a vow that had been made in pure disgust and hatred, but would be kept in love.

With shaking fingers, the warrior knight started to caress the angelic features, tracing the elegantly arched eyebrows and high cheekbones with his fingertips, a last endearment in the very face of death. Noticing that his tears were falling on the adept's bone white skin, he fervently hoped that maybe, acknowledging that at least one human being had wept for the man who had betrayed everything their faith was standing for, the One God of Earth and Erna could bring himself to forgive this lost wanderer in the shadows in spite of his lack of true repentance.

The sun disappeared below the horizon, and Vryce knew he was running out of time. Pressing his lips on the adept's frigid mouth for a first – and last – kiss, he sensed some minute movements. Long lashes fluttered, and the already uncomfortably cool air chilled down considerably. It was now or never. Finding a modicum of consolation in the notion that, having travelled so many long and winded roads in each other's company, it was only fitting that they were facing their last journey together, he steeled himself to the grim task laying ahead.

Trembling in every limb, Damien raised his blade high above his head. "Oh God, please give me strength," he whispered. "And have mercy upon our poor souls."

Outside the Keep, night was taking over the reign, spreading her velvet wings over a cowering world and mirroring the darkness in his own heart. Gerald's eyes flew open, and seeing his former ally towering over him, poised for the kill, he tried to draw his sword in one fluid, utterly inhuman motion. But the warrior knight was prepared, and mingling his battle cry with the despairing scream of his victim, he brought down his own blade with all his might.

Coming halfway to his senses, Damien Kilcannon Vryce found himself on his knees, covered in gore from head to toe. At the sight of his hands dripping with Tarrant's lifeblood, a surge of nausea welled up inside him unlike anything he had ever experienced before. For a while, he succeeded in choking down the bile rising in his throat by means of taking several deep breaths. But then the metallic stench at home on every battlefield attacked his olfactory sense, could even be tasted at the back of his throat as if he had shared the Hunter's unholy sustenance, and he was lost. Gagging with revulsion, he bent forwards and emptied the contents of his guts for what seemed like a small eternity.

When he could finally stop retching and the fog in his mind had cleared a bit, the implications of his deed hit him with the force of a hammer blow. Merciful God in Heaven, what had he done? What kind of religious madness had possessed him, tempting him to kill the man who had fought at his side and saved his life on more than one occasion? In all probability, there wouldn't be redemption waiting for the former Prophet of the Law, but eternal suffering in hell, this ghastly fate being brought about by the one and only mortal he had dared to trust in a thousand years. A wretched, foolish mortal who had allowed the Patriarch's manipulations to twist his soul, ending him up as a vulking assassin. That's what he had been, plain and simple. A cold blooded murderer, not a saviour. _Oh Gerald, you should have killed me long ago_ , the warrior knight thought dejectedly.

But his survival was a mistake which could be easily corrected. Admittedly, committing suicide was still a cardinal sin in the eyes of his religious authorities. But in his state of utter despair and shock, Damien didn't give a damn for church dogmatics and futile articles of faith. He hadn't seriously planned on outliving the man he loved, anyway, and if he was to be condemned to hell for this latest transgression in a long row, so be it. Very likely, Tarrant would be already waiting for him in purgatory, outright livid with him because of his gullibility and foolhardiness. And rightly so. As soon as they were reunited, he would beg for his forgiveness on his very knees. But before he bid farewell to a world which had lost every appeal whatsoever, he wanted to take a final look at the lineaments so very dear to him.

Under the force of the impact, the Hunter's severed head had rolled face down onto a spot on the ground just a few inches away. His heart hammering a wild staccato inside his chest, Vryce reached for it and gingerly picked it up by the long, blood-matted hair, dreading the look of utmost terror he had witnessed on the adept when he had realized that he was about to die for good. But when he finally forced himself to turn it round and face the facts, he was surprised that the dead visage wasn't frozen in a grimace of pain or fear, but was perfectly tranquil. And that he was gazing at the face of no other but Damien Kilcannon Vryce.

With an outcry which could have woken the dead, he dropped the head like a hot coal and staggered backwards. But he wasn't finished with lending voice to his emotions yet. Not by a long shot. Drowning in an ocean of pure, unadulterated horror, he screamed and screamed until his throat felt like sandpaper and his saliva tasted of blood. But at long last, he became dimly aware of fingers digging painfully into his shoulder blades, shaking him with a vengeance, and of a pair of dark, fearful eyes. "Vryce! For God's sake, Damien, what's come over you?" their owner shouted. "Wake up!"

His sword hand still clutching an object which suspiciously felt like a messy, thick braid, the warrior knight tried to assess the situation. The Lord be praised, his surroundings bore no resemblance to the Hunter's sinister resting place whatsoever. The early morning sun was shining through the windows of what had to be an expensive hotel suite, the birds were twittering their cheerful tales, and the pretty face gazing down on him with a slight frown was literally glowing with health. Gerald Tarrant in his new incarnation, so very much alive.

With a sob of relief, Vryce finally let go of his lifeline to sanity and pulled the 'youth' into a close embrace. A dream. Murdering the adept had just been a vulking dream, born from too many living nightmares. Considering his lover's enthusiasm of which the state of the sheets they were laying on could bear witness to, he should have slept like a log, But apparently, life was never easy. Not that this came quite as a surprise with regard to all the crap they had been through over the last odd years. 

Remembering what had come to pass last night, Damien blushed furiously. Completely by chance, they had stumbled upon each other in Jaggonath's university library. To his astonishment, instead of making a bolt for it once again, the man introducing himself as Gerald Hawthorne had calmly replaced the ancient tome about demon lore he had been leafing through on the shelf and invited him for a glass of wine. One drink had lead to another, and after emptying the second bottle of Nubordeaux at the Coach and Horses, they had agreed on continuing their reunion party in a more private setting. The rest was history, and a very pleasurable one, for that matter.

"Are you going to inform me why you've screamed like a madman, let alone ripping out my hair, or shall we play a nice game of truth and dare?" the adept inquired sarcastically. But Damien didn't fail to notice the look of profound worry in his eyes, nor the fact that Gerald's hands were petting his naked torso, their so very human warmth utterly unlike the Hunter's soul-chilling touch. With his panic slowly but surely fading to no more but a dim memory, he wouldn't have minded at all if they had strayed a bit further southwards.

 A golden brown eyebrow raised in perfect unison with the corners of Hawthorne's mouth, but his fingers stubbornly stayed where they were. "I'm waiting, Vryce. And as long as I am waiting, you will have to wait as well. Bad luck."

"As you'll keep on and on until you've satisfied your curiosity, I might as well tell you now that I've had a nightmare about killing the Hunter," Damien replied with feigned annoyance. "But this wasn't even the worst of it. Picking up his decapitated head, I found that the dead face was my own. You can take it from me that it was a damned unpleasant experience.“

"I thought as much.“ The adept darted him a speculative glance. "On our mother planet Earth, they had special healers for suchlike problems," he said matter-of-factly. "Those 'psychologists' were well versed in the intricacies of the human soul. If that's any good to you, I could give you a summary of the most important theories about repressed wishes and the mechanisms of our subconscious mind in dealing with those impulses. Or do you have other plans for the time being?"

Although Gerald's voice was completely serious and his mien the very picture of polite solicitousness, the former priest was quite sure that the vulking bastard was pulling his leg. But drowning in those black, fathomless eyes brightened by a sparkle of mischief, he couldn't have cared less. "Other plans. Definitely," he managed to choke out hoarsely before his lover sealed his mouth with a kiss. When their tongues met, his blood rushed to his loins like a veritable cascade, thankfully followed by five very skilled fingers this time, and for the next two hours, he didn't give a damn for theories and summaries thereof.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Gerald?“

"Mmh?“

The adept didn't sound particularly less exhausted than he was feeling himself, and Damien couldn't quite suppress a surge of foolish male pride welling up inside him. "You aren't trying to finish me off in a subtle manner, are you?" he muttered. "As you very well know, I'm not a greenhorn anymore."

Slowly, Hawthorne lifted his head from its resting place on the warrior knight's chest and looked him square in the eye. "Why do you complain, Vryce?" he retorted with an amused smile. "It's universally considered a sweet death. On second thought, one might even call it the ultimate act of love."

 


End file.
